When the Soul Dies
by IGotDaFeels
Summary: -Sequel to When the Clock Stops- After the battle with Gaia, the Nations and Immortals are living out their lives peacefully and happily. But that peace is broken when a non-government organization gets wind of the Nations and decides that they would be better off under the Director's control, where he can break them in search for the secret to their power and immortality.
1. Prologue

**Voila; the debut to my sequel! I'm still not completely sure about the plotline, but will do my best to figure things out along the way, so please excuse any faults or plotholes that you see because this time, I really have no idea what I'm doing here -.-'**

**Anyways, here is the prologue to When the Clock Stops; When the Soul Dies!**

**Morbid, eh?**

The image shown on the screen was that of a man. He was in mid-step, crossing a busy intersection. The man's head was turned slightly to the side as he glanced at incoming cars, green eyes just barely visible below bushy brows. He was wearing a neat sweater vest and carrying a briefcase; exactly like hundreds of other office workers. However, there was something shown in the image that set him apart from the office dwellers, and nearly every other being on the planet; a faint black glow surrounded him, just barely visible from the traffic camera's pixelated image.

On the screen to the left, there was some footage from a store's security camera; a woman, with tanned skin and overlong dark hair, buying clothes at a common outlet in Portugal. This time, her glow was golden red.

There was a third screen, and a fourth, and a fifth… Sixteen screens in total were mounted on the wall. Each one depicted a different person, and each person had a different-coloured light around them. There was one that was red, another that was sky blue, a third that was olive green… Half the visible spectrum was shown, just on that screen.

Across from the wall, there was a man, sitting in a chair. He leaned back, keeping his face in the shadows, and asked offhandedly, "What else do we know about these people?"

A woman stepped to his side and bowed slightly before handing the man a file full to bursting with stacks of paper. "More than enough, Director. We know all are high government officials, very wealthy, and extremely influential in the political community."

The Director's eyes flickered to a person with dusty blonde hair and cerulean eyes, wearing a brown bomber jacket and appearing to be no more than nineteen. The girl by his side, with the white-and-black hair and emaciated figure looked more homeless than anything else. "Is there more?"

The woman paused. "We know that none are human."

The Director swiveled slightly to face her. "Oh? Explain more, Records Keeper."

The Records Keeper bowed again. "We have been archiving any image we can of these people, ever since the first camera was invented. They look the same in every single one. Although it's been over a century, none of these… Beings has aged a single day. There is also the glow surrounding them; although it's new for most of them, most recently the Spaniard, there are five that had been accompanied by the glow for as long as we've known about them; the Portugese, the Englishman, the girl of unknown ancestry who accompanies the American, the Norwegian, and the Romanian. We are not entirely sure of what the glows are, but judging by our readings, they are some sort of energy field that surrounds their bodies."

The man in the chair leaned forward slightly, although his face was still obscured by darkness. "Why was I not aware of this before?"

"With all due respect, Director, it has only been a day since you killed the last Director and took power."

"That is no excuse," The Director said with deadly softness. "I need to know things like this immediately. Now, about these beings, are we going to do anything about them?"

The Records Keeper blinked. "Sir?"

The man turned back to the screens. "Something is making these people immortal… And I want to know what it is. I want to have it, and if I can't, I will take it. Begin preparation of proper containment facilities, and also begin briefing a team. Put the project into motion."

The Records Keeper decided that she didn't like the new Director. Too much ambition, too much short-sightedness… "Sir, the old Director tried to contain them as well. He was stopped before he even got close."

The Director snorted. "He went about it the wrong way, trying in public spaces, where there are almost certainly armed guards and surveillance 24/7. No, we will wait for the opportune moment and strike when they are alone, or as close as they ever get to it. Forget any mention of tranquilizers; the force will shoot to kill. To kill an ordinary human."

He rested his head on the back of his seat. "Because they are not ordinary humans… They never were, and never will be. And soon, they all will be mine, and will stay that way until I learn their secrets, every single last one. I will use any means possible to draw it out of them, and there will be a day that they will break like a dam and tell me every single last thing of what they know, including immortality." The Director paused and took a breath. His voice had remained calm and composed throughout the entire rant, never letting a single hint of emotion reveal itself.

"And that day will be the day that they die."

(Joan's POV)

It had been over three years since the battle with Gaia, and Joan and France were decorating the house, preparing for Christmas celebrations.

"Less than a week to go!" Joan chirped excitedly as she strung tinsel onto the Christmas tree's branches, pausing to mutter something about 'stupid metal fur boas' before attempting, for a twenty-third time, to wrangle the tinsel into submission.

France popped up beside her. "Mon Dieu, that tinsel is not agreeing with you at all, is it?" He took the decorations from Joan's hands and, in a flash, strung it up in a way so that the tree looked like it belonged in a magazine.

Joan deadpanned. "You're going to need to teach me how to do that someday."

France winked back. "But, ma Cherie, that would take all the fun out of seeing you struggle!"

Grumbling, Joan swatted the Frenchman on the arm and instead decided to hang a wreath on the front door, a decidedly easier task that she quickly completed while leaving France to do the rest of the tree-decorating.

"How many are we having over again?" Joan called over while popping into the kitchen and pouring glasses of eggnog for both.

After a moment's hesitation, France shouted back, "The Gaia Nations plus Spain, and the Immortals plus Ragnarok and his girlfriend!"

Joan nearly spat out her eggnog. "Ragnarok has a girlfriend!?"

"Oui, some spirit named Sollare. Looks like a golden dragon. Six elements. You didn't 'ear?"

Joan shook her head mutely and, walking back into the living room, handed France his eggnog. "My god… We're all going to die, aren't we…?"

France laughed and pulled her into a warm hug. "We've been through worse; I think we can survive this much."

"I'm not so sure about that…" Joan muttered.

The mood in France's house was warm that night as the two continued to decorate.

Little did they know…

That the worst was still to come.

**Dun dun duuuuun! Well, that's an ominous start!**

**So, for this one, I was thinking of something a bit more psychological and real-world than the last. I mean, if the Nations are Immortal and have so many abilities, wouldn't there be organizations out there wanting to profit from said immortality and abilities?**

**And yes, I realize that I'm probably completely overthinking the entire Hetalia fandom .**

**Oh well~**

**Please review, follow, and favourite!**

**Wuvs~**


	2. Chapter 1

**Hello, my lovelies!~ Nice to see all you folks again! All thank yous, etc will be at the end of the chapter, so stay tuned~**

* * *

The plan was initiated the day before Christmas Eve. The teams were in place, scattered all over the globe. Although exactly zero governments were even aware of the organization, their dark arms encompassed the planet and they had enough resources to create highly trained forces, arm them, and fly the men to all the required countries within the space of a few days. They were ready to strike.

America and Antarctica were enjoying a quiet evening together, curled up on the couch and watching the fireplace blaze. America had rented an apartment for a few days, away from his official home in Washington D.C, so that the two could be away from the security and bodyguards that always followed the Nation around and insisted on shoving Antarctica away from him, even when he insisted that she was no danger at all.

Stroking his fiancée's hair, America readjusted himself slightly and pressed his lips against Antarctica's forehead, enjoying the feel of her emaciated, frail body in his arms. When they were like that, quiet, he could almost imagine that she was someone who needed his protection and couldn't beat the stuffing out of him on a regular basis.

Antarctica shifted. "You're quiet." She commented, jolting America out of his mental contemplation..

"Yeah. Just thinking." He replied, and the continent simply nodded before nestling in a bit closer to him.

That was another thing that America loved about Antarctica; if he had said that he was thinking to anybody else, they either would have laughed and ignored him or teased him relentlessly. Even though the American had a reputation about not exactly being the brightest, he knew for a fact that he wasn't stupid. Gullible and unable to sense the mood, yes. But not an idiot. Antarctica could sense that about him, and she accepted America as he was. She didn't try to change him or make him into someone else; Antarctica loved America simply because he was America, and no other reason.

The country could hardly believe that he was lucky enough to be her fiancée, even though he knew that a marriage between two Nations would never work.

Antarctica stiffened suddenly, and America raised his head a bit. "Tica? You alright?"

"Did you just hear that?" She asked, voice barely above a whisper, and America slowly shook his head. The continent had been in control of her aura for much longer, which meant that she had much better command over her sharpened hearing. Slowly, Antarctica stood. "I'm going to go look in the kitchen. You stay here," She murmured, then, with quick, quiet steps, disappeared through the doorjamb.

America stayed on the couch, straining his ears. He could hear Antarctica's footsteps as she cautiously walked through the apartment, her soft breathing, the slight rustle of fabric as it shifted over her skin. And-

A horrible scream rang out from the kitchen, and America shot to his feet, aura flaring instinctively and filling the air with the scent of pine needles. "Antarctica!"

The Nation sprinted into the kitchen, then skidded to a halt.

His fiancée was on the ground, a heavy boot grinding deeply into her back as a longbladed knife was stabbed, again and again, into her arms, legs; all the nonvital areas of her body. What looked like a collar made from an odd, bluish-gray metal had been forced around her neck, and as America watched, Antarctica tried to light her aura but the silvery blue tendrils were sucked into the metal ring.

Antarctica turned her face towards him, tears streaming from her pale eyes as her face contorted in agony. "A-america…" She moaned through gritted teeth, obviously stopping herself from screaming again.

America was frozen for a brief moment in shock and horror, and in that moment, strong hands grabbed onto his arms and held them tightly behind his back.

"Before you even think of moving," A low, harsh voice hissed in his ear, "if you do anything that I don't like, your girlfriend's brains will be all over that wall with the snap of my fingers." The man with his boot on Antarctica's back cocked a revolved and pressed it to the continent's temple.

"Now, I realize that she won't die, but I imagine it'll be pain like she's never felt before." The voice turned sickly sweet as hot tears of anger began to run down America's cheeks. "And you really don't need to see that, do you? It'll drive you insane, and we'll need you fully functioning, where we're going."

At some unseen signal, the man holding Antarctica down stabbed the blade through the flesh of her arm and into the wood floor below, pinning her as the continent lost composure and screamed, long and loud. America let out a shout and began to struggle when the man pressed the gun to her temple again, forcing the American to be still. He ground his teeth, sobbing in pure supressed anger and pain as the gun-toting man walked over and dug something out of a pocket; the same kind of collar that Antarctica was wearing.

As soon as he saw it, America knew that he had lost, and felt himself go limp as the collar was clicked around his neck. His mind was like a broken record player as he heard something be unzipped, and his eyes numbly processed a black body bag looming before him. Only one thought existed in the torn void that was his consciousness.

_I didn't help._

And then darkness overwhelmed him, hot and stifling, and then America knew no more.

But he could still feel the pain of failing someone he loved more than life itself.

* * *

Joan supposed that there was a first time for everything. She had killed an Earthlord, killed Gaia, helped fight off a giant army of monsters ten thousand years in the past, and had, of course, led the French in a massive uprising of sorts that had led to the end of the Hundred Year War.

But deflecting bullets with her broadsword while protecting an injured Nation with a collar forced around her neck that absorbed all auric energy?

That was a new one.

It had begun just a few minutes ago. France and Joan were taking a midday nap together in their bed when they had been not-so-gently awoken by the collars being roughly forced onto their necks. France had immediately jumped to his feet and threw a punch at one of their attackers, but another had shot him in the knee and the Nation had crumpled to the ground with a cry of pain. Joan, knowing that she could fight without her aura, had grabbed her broadsword and promptly chopped the hand off the one that had shot France, then positioned herself in front of him to have a better defensive position.

Needless to say, the attackers had immediately focused their fire on the Immortal, and she was hard pressed to defend herself against the rain of metal that was spewing from the gun's bullets. However, she managed to succeed.

For the most part.

A bullet slipped through the patterns of steel and exploded into her shoulder, causing the Immortal's concentration to falter as she stumbled back slightly, hissing in pain. Another bullet impacted her leg, and then her arm, and the broadsword slipped out of numb fingers as Joan fell, glaring with pure hatred up at her masked captors. Beside her, France managed to clamber to his feet, even with the shard of steel in his leg, and drew his rapier, but a shot to the other knee swiftly caused him to fall to the floor.

"Bastards," Joan spat furiously, and one of the attackers gave her a glance.

"Don't blame us. The orders were to get the blondie, not you. You're just some whore that happened to be in the way."

"Don't you dare talk to 'er like that!" France shouted, surging forwards, but the same man kicked him in the side, then again in the chest. Without sparing the Nation a second glance, he glanced over at another captor.

"You have the body bags?"

The other held up a pair of black, shapeless sacks. "Right here."

The first man nodded. "Good. Stuff them in and let's be done with this. I'm hungry."

And with the phrase _I'm hungry_, Joan and France were imprisoned in dark, heavy cloth, which stifled the air and made it hard to breathe. Someone shoved them together to make the two easier to drag, and Joan pressed her hand against the fabric, hoping that France could feel it through the layers. A moment later, the Nation pressed back and a weak smile slipped onto Joan's face as she waited for them to be dragged to… Well, wherever they were going.

_I won't be scared, France. I promise. I'll be strong for you._

* * *

Scathach trekked over the Scottish Highlands, heading back to her and Scotland's house with a smile on her face. She had just been to see Niten and Aoife on their houseboat, which was currently docked on the Scottish coast, while Scotland travelled south to visit his brother in London. Although it had been nice to see her sister, the Next Generation had missed the Nation terribly and was looking forward to seeing him again.

_I mean, he's supposed to be home today…_

Once she reached their house, Scathach burst in without knocking first and announced her presence with a loud, joyful, "Scottie! I'm back~!"

Silence was the only thing that greeted her words.

_Everything is in the same place as it was when he left… Okay, Scotland's not home yet. _Walking over to the phone, Scathach swiftly dialed the number of England's house, then frowned as it kept on ringing and ringing.

Finally, it stopped, and the voice mail came on. The Celtic Warrior left a short, succinct message, saying that she was home and alright, and that the stupid Scot should come back as soon as possible.

Then, Scathach poured herself a glass of water, adjusted a pile of newspapers, sat down on the couch, and began to wait.

And wait.

* * *

The Director pressed his fingers together pensively and stared at the screens mounted on the plain concrete wall before him.

The man that was sitting in a chair behind and to the right of them shifted slightly before leaning forwards, to reveal dark, chin-length hair, an arched nose, sharp features, and eyes that seemed to absorb all the light that entered their pitch-black clutches. "You have all of them?"

The Director turned. "Second-In-Command, call me Director. I am of a higher rank than you and therefore demand your respect."

The dark smell of red wine crept into the room, and a bruise-purple shadow flickered around the Second-In-Command slightly. "I'm not much of a respect person, _Director. _And don't demand _anything. _You know what I could do to you, and besides, you need me. Is that not the whole reason you contacted me and offered some insane scheme about capturing these people for a wealthy sum?"

The Director sighed. "These people are like you, aren't they? Immortal, powerful… It makes me wonder why I don't just break you instead, _Second-In-Command._"

"Nobody is like me. Nobody. And do you really think that you can break me?" The shadow darkened. "I would like to see you try."

The Second-In-Command paused. "Anyways, I presume the collars I designed for you worked? How did the abductions go?"

The Director turned back to the screens. "The collars did their job well. As for the abductions… The Brit and the Scot were difficult, and there was a civilian with the Frenchman, so we had to take her as well. But she won't last long." He paused, musing. "However… We put a collar on her anyways, just to be sure, and she still managed to chop off a hand of one of my men, so maybe she's stronger than she looks. Who knows?"

He swivelled his head slightly to face the other man, and his voice dripped with poisonous gratitude as he spoke. "Anyways, I am most grateful for your aid, Second-In-Command…" The Director paused. "Or, should I say, _Gilles de Rais._"

* * *

**History lesson time! Gilles de Rais was a Frenchman that fought alongside Joan during the Hundred Year War; after she was supposedly burned, he went insane, converted to Satanism, and made himself immortal through dark magic. Fun stuff. And now, he's working for the organization that took the Nations. Even better.**

**Should I put a gore warning up for this chapter…? Nah. Sorry for only detailing the captures of just Joan, France, Antarctica, and America….. They're kinda gonna be the main players throughout this, and I thought that if I went through everyone, it would be a bit tedious… Meh :/**

**Thanks a bunch to PrussianLlamaCat and IOU1882 for favouriting, following, and reviewing! You did the entire drill, which means that you get internet cookies~ (::) (::) (::) **

**And also, thanks to IOU1882 for giving me the inspiration to use Gilles de Rais; I never woulda thought of using a character from Joan's past otherwise :3 You're awesome, girl!**

***coughsorryforforgettingaboutyouearliercough***

**Anyways, please favourite, follow, and review!**

**Everything belongs to their respective owners**

**Wuvs~**


	3. Chapter 2

**I have no bloody idea why, but while I was listening to this chapter, I was blasting my brains out with epic battle music on repeat… And it isn't even a battle scene O.e**

**And why do I use 'bloody' so much? I'm not even British… I'm Canadian… (And no, that isn't the same thing XD)**

**Ahem.**

**That was a bit of a tangent. Anyways. On to the chapter~!**

* * *

When Joan awoke, her entire body felt like a sore, bruised, bloody nightmare. She winced and slowly sat up, then crumpled to the ground again with a groan as a wave of nausea passed through her body. Shoulders trembling, her stomach heaved and emptied its contents onto the hard, flat floor as Joan barely propped herself up in time to prevent herself from getting covered in the sick. With another groan, the Immortal pressed a hand to her temples, already feeling a pounding headache come on.

_Ugh… What happened…? Where am I?_

Blearily, Joan managed to open her crusty eyes to see nothing but blackness. Immediately, she began to panic.

_Am I blind? Did they blind me?! Oh, wait, no… I can see some light…_

There was a faint rectangular glow where she supposed that the door must have been, and, with a grunt of effort, Joan managed to drag her battered form over to it. Stretching up, she reached for where a doorknob would usually be… But instead pawed at flat, smooth steel.

_I suppose that I wouldn't be that lucky… _She thought muzzily, every thought forcing itself through her mind like a stone through quicksand.

_Am I alone here? _The thought came to Joan suddenly and she froze, fear beginning to flow through her veins, the adrenaline clearing away some of the fog wrapped around her brain.

_God, please don't let me be alone… I don't think I could survive that… Not with my mind intact at the end…_

Squinting her eyes, Joan began to make out several humanoid shapes on the floor around her, some flat on their backs, others curled up into the fetal position, and still others splayed out haphazardly like they had just been tossed there uncaringly.

Joan crawled over to one of them, feeling energy begin to revitalize her limbs as she managed to climb out of the drugged sleep.

_Because it has to have been drugs, right? How would we all be asleep otherwise?_

Reaching the person, Joan shook their shoulder, trying to rouse them. "Hey… Wake up…" She whispered, then coughed slightly, her throat too dry to manage anything other than a harsh croak.

The person gasped and sat bolt upright, almost hitting Joan on the nose, before immediately falling back onto their side. "Ow…" They muttered, and Joan recognized the voice of Antarctica

"You okay?" Joan asked, helping the continent sit up after her quick bout of nausea.

"Yeah…" Antarctica kinked her neck. "I got stabbed a few too many times for my liking, but I'm already halfway healed… Is America okay?" She asked, tone switching from conversational to concerned in a flash.

Joan had to smile, but shook her head, then realized that the continent wouldn't be able to see her. "I don't know. You were the first that I woke up, but I know that there's others."

"Good." Antarctica paused, then dragged herself over to a form that looked exactly the same as the others.

A moment later, she heard a hoarse, "Tica…?"

There was a rustling of fabric, like America was pulling the continent tightly into his arms. "Oh my God, Antarctica… I'm so glad that you're okay…"

Joan listened for a moment longer, smiling absentmindedly, then, risking the feat of standing up, began to search for France.

She had to wake up Canada, Scotland, and Portugal before the Immortal found him, curled tightly up in the corner with his arms wrapped around his head. By that time, Joan's eyes had completely adjusted to the darkness and she could make out his face, twisted like he was having the worst kind of nightmare; the one that comes from actual life, the one that feels so real it's like one is reliving their absolute worst times.

Joan had dreamt more than her fair share of those.

Gently, she reached out and shook France's arm. "France? Wake up, please…" She said in a rough murmur, slightly louder than what she could manage before but still practically inaudible.

He shifted. "Jeanne?" France asked, reverting unconsciously back to French.

"Oui, c'est moi," Joan replied in the same language, stroking France's formerly golden and shining hair back from his sweaty brow.

"Mm." France opened his mouth like he was going to say something… Then rolled onto his side and vomited onto the concrete floor.

"Shh, it's okay," Joan soothed, rubbing his back gently. "It's okay…."

After wiping his mouth, France looked back up at her, a tiny bit of sparkle back in his eyes.

"You look like you're caring for a child, Jeanne. Are there really some maternal instincts 'idden deep down in that leathery 'ide of yours?"

She swatted him on the arm jokingly. "Nah. Just caring-for-soldiers-who-need-some-comfort instincts. I'm pretty sure that all the 'maternal' was sucked out of me a long time ago… War and fighting would do that to anybody…"

France managed to sit up and flashed a small grin, and although it was just a shadow of its usual self, (no France grin was complete without sparkles and roses randomly falling from nowhere) it made the corners of Joan's own mouth twitch up into a smile.

"Well, if you insist, I suppose that caring-for-soldiers-who-need-some-comfort instincts are good enough for me, non?" He said cheekily, prompting Joan to smack him again.

Rubbing his arm, France glanced around at their surroundings and the other forms, who were beginning to move around, if they weren't already awake. "So… Where are we?"

Joan shrugged. "No idea. Almost definitely someplace not fun, though."

He chuckled shortly. "Oui, I kind of figured that out for myself…"

"No kidding." Joan muttered.

At that moment, lights set into the room's ceiling flared to blinding brightness, filling the room with sharp, clinical, light and causing Joan to wince in pain, covering her darkness-adjusted eyes with her hands.

All the Nations that weren't already sitting up or standing jerked upright in shock, then groaned, trying to shield themselves from the hateful glow.

A female voice came over an intercom set into the wall by the door. "The guests will now proceed to the medical laboratory for labelling."

_Guests. Riiiight. Who is she trying to kid? And why do we need to go to the lab for labelling…?_

The door opened and a group of guards flooded in, each one grabbing a Nation and yanking them to their feet. Joan glared furiously at the one that came near her, and they hesitated for a brief moment before taking her arm roughly and pulling her upright.

She allowed herself a tiny smirk. _They're scared of us. They don't know what we can do. That's good._

The Immortals were led through a windowless hallway, around a couple of corners, and into what must have been the medical lab. Like the rest of the building, it was gray cement, filled with blindingly bright lights. There was a row of hospital beds, pressed against the far wall, and in the center of the room lay an operating table.

The Doctor entered from a door set in the left wall; he was a short, rotund man with a bad comb over, wearing a pristine white lab coat and a cheerful grin.

"So, these are the new arrivals, eh?" He glanced over them. "A bit dirty for my taste, but oh well. Now…" The Doctor rubbed his hands together eagerly. "Who shall we begin with? Oh, so many choices… Could you form a line please?"

With the not-so-helpful shoves of the guards, the Nations and Joan shuffled into a kind of line, and somehow, Joan got pushed to the very back. Peeking around China, she saw that Romano was at the front, and he was obviously biting his tongue to keep the flood of swear words in.

The Doctor led him over to the operation table. "Now, son, could you lie, face-down, on this? Thank you… Now, hold still…"

Something that Joan couldn't quite see clacked shut, and the Doctor turned towards a small tray on a table.

"Well, son… Could you tell me your name?"

"L-lovino… Lovino Vargas…" Romano replied, using his human name.

"I think that Lovino is just fine, my friend." The Doctor said, and turned back towards Romano, holding something that made Joan's blood go cold.

A scalpel.

Still with the same cheery smile, the Doctor walked over to Romano's side, until the bulk of Germany obscured him.

"Don't struggle… This will only take a moment…"

There was a pause.

And Romano began to scream.

Joan's guts knotted at the horrible sound, and she stared mutely at the floor, wanting to block out the noise of her friend's agony.

A minute later, Romano was released, and he stumbled to the back of the line, tears running down his face. Joan carefully looked around him, and with the Italian's nod, pulled down the back of his shirt neckline slightly.

There, in neat, blocky capitals, carved directly into Romano's flesh, was the word 'Lovino'.

_This is what they mean by 'labelling'… The sick bastards…_

"What's your name, hun?"

"T-taya… Darmstan…"

Antarctica's screams echoed around the room, mingling with America's shouts of anger, and Joan covered her ears.

"Name, my good sir?"

"Alfred…"

The American yelled in pain while Antarctica clung onto Joan's arm and wept.

"Name?"

"F-feliciano…"

"A longer one, eh? That's too bad…"

Italy screamed and sobbed, crying for someone, anyone, to help.

"Name."

"Ludwig, you-"

The sound of Germany's own torture cut him off.

"Name."

"Arthur."

At that point, Joan was close enough to see England struggle and twitch like his skin was on fire.

"Name."

"Shana…"

Portugal didn't scream, but guttural sobs, muffled by clenched teeth, sounded from her throat.

"Name."

"Antonio."

Spain's inhuman noises as his name was carved into his skin made Romano let out an instinctive sob.

"Name."

"Gilbert…"

Canada hid his face in America's bloodied jacket as Prussia's sounds of agony resonated through the room.

"Name."

"K-kiku."

Japan's stoic, calm face disappeared to be replaced by a mask of pure pain.

"Name."

"Allistor, you bastard-"

"That will be _quite _enough."

The Doctor seemed to take an especially long time with Scotland.

"Name."

"M-matthew…"

Canada screamed until his usually soft voice gave out.

"Name."

"Francis…"

"A frenchie, eh? I've always hated France…"

Joan was now close enough to see the Doctor carve in France's name far slower and deeper than was necessary, as his body contorted away from the bloody scalpel.

"Name?"

"Y-yao…"

China writhed in torturous pain, teeth clenched to stop himself from letting out any sound.

_I'm next._

Joan walked up to the bloodsoaked table and tried not to shudder as she lay down, the red liquid cold and sticky under her skin. Something clamped shut around her wrists, stopping her from struggling or trying to get away.

"Looks like you're the last, dear. Name?"

"Joan." She replied, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.

"Very well."

A moment later, pain like Joan had never felt before lanced through her. It was Pain with a capital P, somehow made worse by the fact that it was her name, the thing that defined her and the thing that people remembered her by, that was causing Joan this utter, intense agony.

Seconds later- or was it years?- the Doctor finished, and Joan stumbled back to her friends, not bothering to conceal her sobs as a net of comforting hands reached out and tried to ease her pain as best as they could. France pushed through the small mob and hugged Joan to his chest tightly, tears streaming from her own eyes and dropping onto the top of her head as Joan cried, desperately needing some form of release.

"I trust that the scalpel was edged with Second-In-Command's special metal?" One of the guards asked, and the Doctor nodded, cleaning its small blade.

"Yes. There's no healing them in any way. These scars will stay on for the rest of these people's lives."

The guard snorted. "Who knows how short that'll be?"

"I suppose it depends on how hard it'll be to break them," The Doctor replied, the same grin he had at the beginning still plastered in his face.

Joan wanted to rip it off.

"Hey." A gun barrel poked her in the side. "Get moving. We're going back to your room."

Stumbling after the rest of the Nations, huddling close to France, Joan kept her gaze fixed firmly on the ground.

_How will I ever survive this? What other horrors do they have in mind?_

* * *

**...**

**WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DID I JUST WRITE?!**

**I'm so sorry :c**

**But…**

**GYARGH this made me feel so sad as I wrote it…. It had to be done, though…**

**Thank you to IOU1882 for all your support…**

**And to everybody else that faved, followed, and reviewed…**

**I'm sorry to not mention anybody by name, but I'm really seriously depressed right now :c**

**I'll get back to you next chapter…**


	4. Chapter 3

**GYAGH sorry for the wait… I was completely exhausted after New Year's, and I just haven't been able to muster up the willpower to write recently :c**

**But, I'm back now~! Enjoy!**

* * *

Joan paced restlessly around the cell containing her and the Nations. It had been who knew how long since the… _Labelling… _Hours? Days, even? Food, nothing more than bread and cheese, and stagnant water was left in their cell through a slot in the door on an irregular schedule, so she had no way of telling the time. It could have been daytime, it could have been the middle of the night… All sense of the hour's passing had fled, and it was replaced by a growing feeling of restlessness and impatience.

Counting the number of footsteps it took for her to walk from one wall to another, (it was twenty-three) Joan trailed her fingers along the rough concrete, then turned and sat down beside France. He rubbed her back comfortingly, being careful to avoid the upper part, where her scars still burned at every movement.

"What are you thinking of?" He asked, more to distract her than anything else.

Joan shifted slightly and tugged at her metal collar, wanting its intrusive presence away from her skin. "Thinking of any way to get out. It's driving me crazy, just the waiting. I know that the labelling wasn't the end of it… I hate not knowing what those sick monsters are going to do to us next."

France rested his chin on top of her head. "I know, ma cherie… I know. Do not worry, we will figure something out, sooner or later. As Nations, although this is not good, we 'ave all been through worse… Just recently, I was 'eld captive at Germany's 'ouse for many years. I rebelled often… It did not always end well for me, although I managed to take revenge in my very 'omeland for what 'e did."

Joan frowned, thinking. _A fairly recent event when France was nearly a part of Germany, and he struck back in his homeland…._

_Oh._

_The Second World War. When Germany and the Nazis nearly completely took over France, yet there was still the French Resistance fighting against them… I fought with them, didn't I? _She shuddered, remembering. _I saw things during the war that no person, immortal or not, should ever need to witness. And the revenge…?_

… _OH._

The Normandy landings, the largest amphibious invasion and also the single bloodiest battle in all history. Joan hadn't participated in them personally, but it was the forces of England, America, Canada, and the French Resistance against the Nazis, who had set up forts on five beaches at Normandy, France.

It was an utter massacre.

Over 200,000 soldiers had died on the first day alone, and the assault had lasted for weeks, although no days were as fatal as the first attack.

_I wonder… Can Nations feel when their people die? _Joan turned her head slightly to look at France. _They have to, on at least some scale. Their people are a part of them, so they must be able to tell when one dies._

_Does it hurt?_

_If it does…_

Joan's mind began to wander down the blood soaked path of history._ The bombing of Pearl Harbour, and, in response, the atomic bombs dropped on Japan… The German's massacre of the Italians… The siege of Leningrad… The Blitzkreig and bombing of Berlin… Hell-Fire pass, where the Germans slaughtered the Brits… The Holocaust, especially… And these were all just in the Second World War…_

Her eyes flicked up, moving from face to face. _How can they possibly still be smiling? Still be hopeful? Still have the will to carry on fighting? And I thought that I've seen too much in this life…_

Joan shivered instinctively as a dark thought came to her.

_Compared to the Nations, I've seen nothing._

A finger tapped her on the shoulder, jolting Joan out of her thoughts, and France's worried eyes swam into view.

"Jeanne… You look like you're 'aving some not-so-nice thoughts going around in there… What are you thinking about?"

She shrugged. "War. Death. You know, normal things to contemplate while we're in this situation. I was just wondering… Does it hurt, when your people die? And if it does, how can you still be…" She gestured vaguely in his direction. "… You?"

France laughed lightly, surprising Joan, and pulled her a bit closer. "Oui, it 'urts… It feels like a piece of myself is being ripped out when a Frenchman or Frenchwoman dies, although for some reason I only feel it while at war…" He brightened slightly. "But, that's all over for now. We 'ave too much day-to-day business to be always dwelling on the past. It 'appens, we deal with it, and we move on. That's the Nation's way. We don't forget, but there's no need to 'urt over something that 'appened years ago. No use being caught in the past, not when there's enough present to keep me occupied for years."

Joan blinked. "That's true, but-"

"There is no but." France interrupted gently. "That is simply 'ow it is."

Nodding, Joan huddled a bit closer and quieted down, both physically and mentally, as she contented herself with simply watching the Nations around her.

Antarctica and America were curled up tightly together in the corner, the American's chin on top of the continent's head as she wrapped both arms tightly around his torso, thin legs tucked up against her chest.

China and Portugal were right beside them, sitting with their backs pressed against the wall, holding onto each other's hands until their knuckles were white. Japan was on the other side of China, and the two former brothers were talking together softly, beginning to rekindle a relationship that had all but died centuries ago.

Prussia was comforting Canada in the opposite corner, running slender fingers through the younger Nation's golden brown hair as the Canadian buried his face in the Empire's shoulder, tensing occasionally as his scars stretched with his breathing.

Romano and Spain were as far away as possible from Germany and Italy, who were cuddling, slightly awkwardly on the German's part, in the corner beside the door. Although Joan didn't know Spain as well as she did the other Nations, his easygoing temperament, sunny disposition, and innate desire to make everyone smile as much as he did made the Spaniard and her into fast friends.

England and Scotland were so close together, heads bent towards each other in quiet conversation, that one could have thought they were the same Nation. **((Aaaahhh, see what I did there? XD Scotland's probably gonna kill me for that, though… XD)) **Nearby, Romania and Norway, the other two members of the self-proclaimed Magical Trio, just stared at empty air, lost in their own thoughts and probably daydreaming about better times, both ahead and behind.

Joan managed a small smile. _At least this seems to have pulled us together, as a group… We were already close after Gaia, but… This is definitely world-changing._

Resting her head on France's shoulder, Joan allowed herself to relax and doze off…

… Blissfully unaware of what was going to happen next.

* * *

The Director eyed the same screens in front of them. There were visual links in the cell, although no audio. Offhandedly, he turned slightly towards Gilles de Rais, who was watching the screens with a tense, hard-eyed gaze.

"Do you have the rooms prepared?" The Director asked softly.

Gilles took a moment to look at his superior. "Yes. They will be ready to use whenever you like."

"Good." The Director settled down in his seat. "Remind me how they work?"

"What I did was I took seventeen empty rooms, one for each… Visitor. Imbibing their walls with a small amount of my aura, I created a low-energy psychic field over the rooms. What it will do is read the minds and memories of whoever is inside." Gilles hesitated, and the Director nodded at him.

"Go on."

"When it gets inside their minds, the field will find their worst memories and darkest fears, then transmit that information to the aura in the walls. It will replicate that nightmare exactly."

"And why are we doing this, again?"

"It may give us a grasp of how old they are, judging by which events show up. However, if no recognizable historical scenes are seen, we will still be able to see their weaknesses and find a way to use these weaknesses against them."

The Director turned back to the screens, where the captives were huddling together in small, tight knots. "Whoever these things are, I don't envy them. But I will do what must be done to learn about them, study them." Glancing over, he noticed Gilles staring intently at the room once again.

"You look like you've seen a ghost." The Director remarked.

"Maybe I have," The Second-In-Command replied, almost too softly to hear.

"You recognize one of these beings?"

"Two. One, the man with long blonde hair… I remember seeing him during the Hundred Year War, I believe. One of our highest-ranking officers during my time, and still in command after I left."

"The Hundred Year War?!" The Director demanded, voice quickening with excitement, but he swiftly calmed himself again. "And the other?"

"The woman beside him, with the dark hair… She looks like one of my oldest friends… But she died a very long time ago."

"Eh." Gilles' superior shrugged dismissively. "A descendant, then. Anyways, tell me more about the blonde. Did he look any different? Younger?"

But Gilles de Rais had stopped listening.

* * *

Scathach was sick and tired of waiting. It was two days after she called Scotland, and he still hadn't replied….

_That bastard, _she thought as the Celtic warrior strode around the house angrily. _What is he even doing?! Spending time with another woman? Is that it?! He wouldn't dare! Not after everything that we've been through…_

Feeling like she was about to explode, Scathach grabbed the phone and dialled France and Joan's house number, intending to rant for at least an hour to her best friend.

No response.

_What the…? Joan nearly always picks up the phone, and if she isn't around, then France does… Maybe they're out together…_

Cancelling the call, Scathach punched in the number of Joan's cell phone.

No response.

_Okay, what the hell is going on here?!_

Changing her mind, she instead called Saint-Germain, who picked up after two rings.

"Hey, Scathach! Wassup?"

"Have you heard from Joan recently?" The Next Generation asked, beginning to pace again.

"Yeah, she called about a week ago-"

"I meant in the past two days."

There was a pause. "No… Come to think of it, that's kinda strange… She usually checks in at least once a day, out of sheer boredom if nothing else…"

A knot began to grow in Scathach's stomach, but she managed to keep her voice light.

"Okay then! Tell me if she does call!"

And, without waiting for a response, she hung up.

_Something here is very, very wrong…_

* * *

**GAH bad chapter… I'm sorry… I was just running out of ideas and turned this into a filler… I'm really not happy with it, but oh well :/**

**About the slightly random history lesson:**

**I read through an entire day-by-day timeline of the Second World War and it was terrifying. For about half the war, it looked like the Nazis would actually win; this was before America joined, and virtually all of Europe plus North Africa was under control of the Nazis, while Japan was a powerhouse in the east, taking over all of the Pacific islands, part of Australia, and about half of China before the war turned.**

**First: The French formed a resistance against Germany, even they were virtually completely taken over, and were one of the main fighters for the Allies. Second: Hitler turned on his allies, the Soviet Union, and made one of the worst mistakes possible, the same that Napoleon made…**

**He attacked Russia, or more specifically Moscow, during winter.**

**Half his troops froze to death before the Russians got to them, and after that betrayal, the Soviet Union joined the Allies and was one of their most powerful forces, besides the British and Americans. After that, the Allies completely expulsed the Nazis out of Africa and South America, then began to attack Corsica and South Italy, making an invasion back into Europe, while China made a stand against Japan, along with the aid of Russia and America.**

**And…**

**The Allies won, against all odds :')**

**GOD I'm a geek.**

**But yeah**

**If you think about Hetalia, if you don't take it for face value and think about the actual historical events behind everything… It is literally one of the saddest animes out there.**

**Or maybe that's just my fangirl speaking.**

**Aaannyywaaayysss…. I really want to thank Time Traverser, IOU1882, PrussianLlamaCat for being my reviewers both last chapter and the one before, since I was too depressed to add you in the author's note last time ^^'**

**Thank you all! Please review, favourite, and follow, since it always makes me freak when you do! :D**

**Wuvs~**


	5. Don't Get Excited

Hi everyone~

I just wanted to inform all you lovely people that I will be leaving fanfiction for an indefinite amount of time... This means no updates, no pm replies, no review responses. I'm really sorry about this, and I know it's like I'm suddenly dropping off the face of the earth, but... I'm just really sorry.

I have my reasons, of course. I'm not going to get into the details, but let's just say that I have a lot going on in my life at the moment, and I honestly can't handle another thing to think about right now. You guys are amazing, and this hopefully temporary hiatus is in no way caused by a lack of support. I love every single person that reads/reviews/even looks at my work and for taking the time out of their day to glance over at what I've written, but at this moment... I just can't deal with it...

PaintingMornings/PrussianLlamaCat, you were my first friend on this site and my first over-the-internet buddy. You were also the first consistent supporter of When the Clock Stops, and you are just such an amazing person 3

You deserve a billion reviews, and more :3 (Lame compliment, but oh well)

IOU1882, you're the person that makes me think and is never afraid to give me their ideas, which have actually improved my general plotness and characters in general :3 Your work on Joan of Arc has given me real insight into her story and history, and has made her character so much more complex. Thank you a ton for helping me, whether you realized it or not 3

There are so many more people that I need to thank, but those are the two that have contributed the most and given me the most drive too keep on writing.

Thank you, everybody, and I'm sorry for leaving...

GOD this is getting cheesy :/

Anyways

Ciao! I'll hopefully hear all your luvverly voices again soon~

Wuvs~


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